About me.

I am a bitch. To the average person this, of course, implies that I am malicious, bitter, jaded, resentful, guarded, angry, and rough around the edges. It suggests I’m insensitive, cold, have few friends, am difficult and/or disagreeable. This generalization serves two purposes: first, as a warning or cautionary tale to other(s), and second, as an intent to wound strong women like me, by attempting to play on the assumption that we collectively share a fear of being disliked - so much so, that the word itself might be enough to bring us to our knees and cripple us to our core.

Wishful thinking. Self proclaimed bitches like me will agree, the term is less an Achilles Heel and more a Badge of Honor, maybe even a Purple Heart, acknowledging our fearlessness, vigor, and victories in the never ending battles of life. 

Bitches are not born, we are made. Our experiences, encounters, and exchanges eventually shape us into confident, self respecting women with high standards, whilst simultaneously eliminating the impressionable, naive, trusting young girls we once were. But, contrary to popular belief, we are not angry and miserable as a result of our mistakes or broken hearts, or of our misfortunes or injustices. Rather, we are empowered by them. At some point we realize we have to get off our backs, grab life by the balls, and start making up for the ones we never had.

I’m going to share with you some stories and experiences of my own, collectively responsible for ultimately turning me into a proud, card carrying member of the bitch community. Some are ridiculous and nearly too unbelievable to be true, but they are also funny, entertaining, and all too common amongst women, I’m sure. I feel it’s my duty to set the record straight, to share with you what women, like me, have to deal with on a day to day basis, and what inevitably earns us such a misleading, misunderstood label that I’m officially redefining. This is the story of “How Bitches Are Made.” 

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